


Dirty Laundry, and the Airing Thereof

by xylodemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Frottage, Humor, M/M, MWPP Era, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-06
Updated: 2008-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we learn there are three sides to every story. Except when there are four. Except when there are <i>five</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Laundry, and the Airing Thereof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MidniteMarauder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidniteMarauder/gifts).



> For [](http://midnitemaraud_r.livejournal.com/profile)[**midnitemaraud_r**](http://midnitemaraud_r.livejournal.com/) and [](http://merry_smutmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**merry_smutmas**](http://merry_smutmas.livejournal.com/) 2007.

**(one)**

_If it's all the same, I'd rather not talk about it._

_I'm not embarrassed, or anything -- why should I be? I mean, I'd rather everyone didn't know I once got off with a pair of blokes, but it was just the once. We're mates, the three of us. Best mates. I know one or two fellows who've helped a friend out in the shower, or whatever, so you can't say that sort of thing never happens around here. Happens more than you'd think, really. Ask Gudgeon what he was doing when the Whomping Willow kicked his arse. Go on, ask him, and if he gives you some rot about needing Niffler dung for a Herbology project, tell him to stick it in his good eye. He had a mouthful of Benjy Fenwick that night, and everybody knows it. Of course, those two have been at it since third year, so that's a completely different story._

_I still don't want to talk about it. It's not your business, really, and there's not much -- all right, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist._

_First off, it's not what you think. Gudgeon and Fenwick can do as they please -- and the way I've heard it, they do: loudly and often -- but like I said, that's a completely different story. We hadn't done it before, and we've not done it since, so it's not the same at all. I mean, we're not gay. We're not having a go every night, or anything. Well, I don't know about Sirius and Remus, now that you mention it, but for my part, it was just the once. Yeah, just the once, and it wasn't even my idea._

_They started it. Yeah, they really did. Look, I wasn't even there at the first. I had detention that night -- and don't say you're not surprised, because I really shouldn't have. I didn't deserve it, that time. Right, that time, and no I bloody well didn't. Wrong place at the wrong time, and that, and Peter's hopeless with spells involving water, and McGonagall -- well, I'm starting to think the old bird's mad for my arse, the way she's always dragging me into her office, but never mind that. My point is, I wasn't there, because I had detention. Without Peter, I might add, because the gormless git threw me over for that Hufflepuff he'd been keeping -- the tall one, you know, with the breasts -- oh, right. McGonagall. Well, she kept me late, like she always does, and I don't know what I missed while I was wearing my quill to a nub, but when I got upstairs, I caught Sirius and Remus having a grope._

_On my bed, thank-you-very-much._

_I rather wasn't expecting that. Well, all right. I can't say I'd never considered it. I mean, Remus is gayer than the whole Gobstones Society put together, and Sirius isn't the type to complain about a hand on his todger. He really isn't. Great prancing tosspot gets more sex than the rest of us combined -- not that Peter's holding up his end, mind -- sorry. But yeah, it was a bit of a shock. They were on my bed, for Merlin's sake, and they were starkers! Well, Sirius was starkers, but Remus was getting there._

_I meant to leave them to it, but that didn't work out so well. I mean, Sirius really was starkers, and Remus -- look. I already told you. It was their brilliant idea, and I don't want to talk about it._

_How about Quidditch, then? Gryffindor went up against Slytherin, last week. We won, of course. Best match I'd had in a long time._

~

James sighed, dipped his quill, and sighed again.

_I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor._

_I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor._

A drop of ink welled on the tip of his quill. James watched as it fell to the parchment and spread, forming into something that favoured a Nogtail's backside. He blew on it, but it quickly changed direction, threatening to blot out his last line. Sitting primly on McGonagall's desk, his wand mocked him. James shook his head and began mopping up the mess with the sleeve of his shirt.

_I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor._

_I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor._

Setting his quill aside, James flexed his hand. His wrist hurt. His fingers were starting to cramp -- unsurprising, that; McGonagall had been holding him hostage all bloody night -- and he was certain he'd have a blister on his thumb in the morning.

If he did, he would make a point of showing it to Peter. Right before he shoved his thumb up Peter's nose.

_I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor._

_I did not flood the Transfiguration corridor. That was Peter, ~~and I hope he's enjoying his date~~. On second thought, I hope he has the lousiest date in the history of lousy dates. I hope Filch nabs him before he even gets his hands up that bint's sweater. It would serve him right, for swimming off like that, and leaving me to deal with McGonagall. I don't know what possessed him to conjure a hurricane, anyway. Been pissing down rain all week, and rats aren't meant to like water._

_I will not flood the Transfiguration corridor._

"Mister Potter," McGonagall said suddenly. The clock on her desk chimed with all the authority a handful of walnut-sized bells could muster. "Are you finished?"

James blinked. "Finished?"

"With your lines," she snapped, pointing at his parchment. "Is that six full feet, as I assigned?" She approached, her eyes narrowed, and James hastily rubbed out the bit about Peter. "If you require more time, you are welcome to stay another hour. I assure you, I have not made other plans."

"No, professor," James said. "I'm finished."

"Very well. You may go."

Quickly, James stowed his quills and inkwells, and did his best to gather his parchment into a roll. As rolls went, it was rather lopsided and untidy. It also seemed desperate to spill out on one end, but there was nothing for it -- six feet of parchment wasn't going to do anything it didn't want to do. His wrist ached, and a dull throb was starting to move up his arm. He glanced at McGonagall; as soon as her back was turned, he tucked his mirror in his pocket. Fat lot of good it had done him. He'd tried to use it four different times, but Sirius hadn't bothered to answer.

"Mister Potter," McGonagall said, at the exact moment James thought he was free. His hand twitched on the door handle. "I trust you will not be flooding the Transfiguration corridor again?"

Oh, he would be. He definitely would be. And when he did, McGonagall would have every reason to suspect Peter.

"No, professor."

James escaped into the hall, where he was greeted by a stiff chill and more darkness than he thought was strictly necessary. Bloody Filch, always complaining that torches weren't free -- it wasn't like he paid the bills, or anything. Muttering a _Lumos_ , James inched along, guided by the light from his wand and a strong desire to kick Peter in the arse. Thunder rumbled outside, rattling insistently at the windows. A few long shadows stretched across the floor; the first rather looked like Sirius in a skirt, and James stepped squarely on its head. Some best mate, Sirius was. James landed a detention he hadn't earned or deserved and, forgetting his promises of pity, entertainment, and possibly rescue, Sirius had left him to languish.

"Sirius," James hissed, pulling the mirror from his pocket. "Sirius."

In the weak light, the mirror winked balefully. Sirius did not deign to reply.

"Padfoot?" James asked, his voice souring. "Padfoot?"

James shuffled to a halt, weighted with a strange sense of loneliness. He hoped Sirius wasn't out pranking. It was unpatriotic, to manage your mischief when your best mate was rotting in the gaol.

"Here, where've you got to?" He gave the mirror a poke. "Hello?"

The silence was broken, but not by Sirius. Footsteps rang through the hall, followed shortly by a small legion of Ravenclaws armed with a large stack of books. Fourth years, unless James missed his guess, and fresh from the library's trenches. James smiled as they passed, noting that Margaret Ploughshot was finally beginning to fill out her robes. One of them giggled. The others favoured him with bemused, somewhat indulgent expressions -- of the type that politely suggested they thought he was off his box -- and James realised a bit belatedly that, to the casual observer, it looked like he'd been having a conversation with his hand.

Well, why not? Between Peter and McGonagall and the bloody hurricane -- and now Sirius, who'd apparently run off -- it only followed that he'd introduce himself to next year's dating pool by acting like a ruddy barmpot.

Really, it had been that sort of day.

The girls giggled again, hips swaying as they rounded the corner, and James abruptly had a fair idea of what Sirius was up to. Peter had been avoiding their dorm all evening, out of a concern for his personal safety and well-being, and when James left for detention, Remus had been muttering over an Arithmancy essay that was three days late because of the moon. Right now, things would be quiet, and Sirius couldn't hold with quiet. He also couldn't hold with watching Remus study -- something about Remus chewing at his quills. Without James around, Sirius had likely found himself a bit of fluff and carried her off to the Astronomy Tower. James could only hope he hadn't carried off the cloak as well. If James discovered just one revolting stain -- _just one_ \-- he would see to Sirius' arse as soon as he was finished with Peter's.

"Sirius?" James asked hopefully. "Oi, Sirius!" He peered at the mirror with one cautious, half-closed eye. "Are you -- uh, busy?"

"Clearly, he is ignoring you," observed a portrait of a hag James thought could do with a Depilatory Charm. Or a glamour the size of the Quidditch pitch. "I'd be ignoring you too, if I had the option." She slouched down her frame, frowning at James more closely, and James was in the position to notice that a dragon could've been driven through the gap between her two front teeth. "Now, bugger off, there's a good lad."

James sputtered, his eyebrows racing for his hairline. "Excuse me?"

"You must be deaf, because I'm not known for stuttering," the portrait replied. "I said bugger off. I'm trying to have a kip."

James obliged, but slowly, offering her two fingers in lieu of a bow and proper farewell. Predictably, she took offence; she began shrieking like an eagle-owl in heat, whipping herself into such a frenzy that the tapestries started to flutter, but James put paid to that with a quick and well-aimed Silencing Charm. Her displeasure faded to an echo, then died. Everything went still. The suit of armour opposite lifted a squeaky gauntlet in salute -- it'd probably endured the old bat's griping for centuries -- and James replied in kind.

Merlin's balls, he was tired. The pain in his arm had finally reached his elbow, and a stiffness was slowly settling in his shoulders. Suddenly, a kip sounded like a cracking idea, and as things stood, he just might manage it. With Remus shagging his books and Sirius tongue-deep in some bird, James would mostly have the dorm to himself. He didn't much care if Remus chewed at his quills, as long as he did it quietly.

Heartened, James hurried down the corridor, intent on crawling into bed and sleeping well past breakfast. This burst of relative good cheer continued, until he caught sight of something suspicious scurrying across the intersection up ahead. Specifically, two clasped hands, one familiar pudding face, and a cascade of platinum curls James suspected had been subjected to every Bleaching Charm and Lightening Serum known to wizardkind.

Bloody fucking Peter.

James gave chase, bolting forward so quickly he stumbled and slipped, his feet skidding on the polished marble floor. He reached for the closest thing at hand -- a statue of a goblin wearing a hairpiece as unfortunate as his bow-tie -- his fingers skittering uselessly over the stone as he tried and failed to find purchase. He caught the statue around the wrist and pulled; it rocked on its stand and James heaved toward the wall. Once steady, he whirled and tore down the hall after Peter, and Peter, who was slumped against the wall and gasping for air, grabbed his bird by the arm and dragged her around the corner.

The torches sputtered, casting long shadows that striped the floor and danced along the walls. James slowed at the intersection of two corridors and tried to decide which way Peter had gone. Footsteps sounded to the left, and James turned immediately. He found Peter in the centre of the hallway, the blonde girl standing just behind him. He spotted James and froze, throwing up his hands.

"Come on, James. Don't be sore."

"Why would I be sore?" James asked sharply. "I've only been writing lines all night because you turned the Transfiguration corridor into a lake!"

"That was you?" the blonde asked, her mouth curving with a smile. "I never would've thought."

"It was more of a river, really," Peter replied, mostly to her. James made a harsh, strangled sound in the back of his throat, and Peter's head whipped back around. "James? I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't mean for you to get caught in it."

"I didn't mind the swim so much," James snapped. "It's the ruddy detention I'm hacked off about."

"Well," Peter said quietly, "I'm sorry about that, too." He took a step back, then another. The blonde dropped a protective hand on his shoulder. "I'd've told McGonagall it was me. I would've. Only, I had a date."

James pulled his wand. "Boils or spots, Peter? Boils or spots?"

Peter turned, wrapped one arm around the bird, and bloody well disappeared.

_Oh._

"My Cloak!" James shouted. "You've got my Cloak! You didn't even ask, you wanker!"

The torches winked out, plunging the hallway into darkness. James heard whispers and the soft shuffle of feet, but it took him a full minute to get the torches sorted, and by that time, Peter was gone.

James' skin prickled, flushing hot and cold. He was seething -- positively seething -- filled with the explosive, irrational fury he generally saved for Slytherin solidarity and _Prophet_ articles on the Werewolf Registry. He stalked back to Gryffindor, muttering rather murderous imprecations under his breath and turning each corner savagely. He ignored perfectly polite attempts at conversation from three different portraits -- one asked the time, one inquired about the weather, and one demanded to know where the fire was -- and when he reached the stairs, he took all seven flights at a dead run. His legs started to shake, and a slow ache began spreading through his chest, but he pushed on, fuelled not by thoughts of his own bed, but by what he planned to do with Peter's as soon as he had it within spitting distance of his wand.

He banged inside the dorm, several ghastly hexes vying for space on the tip of his tongue, then promptly wished he hadn't.

"WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?"

He dropped his wand. Silence crashed into the room, hitting James like an unexpected jinx. The air was horribly thick, weighted with the sharp smells of sweat and spit and boy. James wrinkled his nose, worked his mouth, and tried to remember how to breathe. He rubbed at his face, but it didn't help. He blinked. Nothing changed. Reddened and flushed, Remus made a small, soft noise. A strange warmth rushed to James' face, and he shivered, struck by the queasy, uncomfortable feeling of having landed badly in his own skin.

 _Leave,_ he thought distantly. _I should leave. I should -- um, go. Somewhere. Oh, God. I should, yeah --_ Moony made that noise again _\-- Um. Right._

Slowly, Sirius stirred, twisting around to look at James over his shoulder. His mouth curved with a soft smile. He seemed unconcerned that both of Remus' hands were resting on the curve of his arse -- possibly because one of his was inside Remus' trousers.

"Close the door, Prongs."

James had a reply to that, he really did. If it would just leave the back of his throat.

_Fuck._

"Prongs?"

 _Salazar's skirt. Sirius is naked_.

"Right -- I was, yeah," James managed finally. "I'll just -- I was, you know, Peter -- yeah, Peter. And I -- well, I -- just. Well, fuck."

Defeated, James looked down at the floor, studying a pumpkin juice splatter that bore an uncanny resemblance to Ursa Major, listening as a second round of silence crashed and roared in his ears. His face was burning. The bed creaked and groaned as one of them moved; James looked up cautiously and found Sirius standing at the foot. Running a hand through his hair, he considered James openly; a purplish bruise was blooming on the side of his neck. He approached, his footsteps soft and careful.

He really was naked. James had seen Sirius naked many, many times, but this wasn't the shower, or the changing rooms, or Sirius streaking through the Great Hall for a dare. This was different -- very, very different -- like Quidditch, and how scoring a goal wasn't the same as breaking a tie. Like a bird's bra, and how taking it off her somehow meant more than nicking it from her drawer. Sirius was hard. The bite on his neck seemed to darken the longer James stared at it. A faint, pink line curved around Sirius' side; James thought of Remus' short, bitten nails, wondered if he'd made _that noise_ as he dragged them over Sirius' skin.

Sirius stepped around James, passing so close his arm brushed James' sleeve. James felt another rush of warmth, and he resumed his study of the would-be Ursa Major, grinding at the spot that passed for Alkaid with the toe of his shoe. The door closed with a sigh. He could hear Remus breathing.

"James." Sirius was behind him, not quite touching, but standing close -- _so close_. "All right?"

"Yeah," James mumbled, daring a glance up. On the bed -- _wait, that's my bed! Oh, my God, that's my bed!_ \-- Remus watched, his mouth slightly open. His hands waited on his chest, fingers splayed, and his skin seemed very dark compared to the loose folds of his unbuttoned shirt. "Yeah. You two can -- I'll just be off, then."

Sirius smiled into the curl of James' ear. "If you like."

_What?_

"Or, you could stay," Sirius continued. His tone was light; it was an offer, not a request. "We've shared all sorts of things. Everything, really." He rested his chin on James' shoulder, his breath ghosting over James' neck. "Might be like that one time," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, "with Jezebel McQuinn. You remember, yeah?"

"Yeah," James breathed, his cheeks colouring at the memory of that slip of a Ravenclaw gasping and twisting between them. She'd tasted like Firewhisky, and Sirius had smelled like cigarettes and moonlight. "I remember." He didn't think he'd ever forget, but he also didn't think this was the same. McQuinn was a girl. McQuinn wasn't _Moony_ , and James and Sirius hadn't touched each other that night, aside from a few accidental brushes that had come from the two of them trying to share the same space. "Might not be."

"Might be better."

James closed his eyes. Sirius' lips fluttered against his neck, and more of that strange, shivery heat crawled across his skin. The room was far too hot. He was far too hot, and he could still hear Remus breathing. The bed creaked again, but Sirius hadn't moved; Sirius was still behind him, curved around him like a shadow. James' eyes snapped open, and Remus made _that noise_. His hand had sneaked inside his trousers, and James watched as Remus' palm pushed against his cock.

"Quite the little tart, our Moony," Sirius murmured, slipping into that slow, silky tone he usually reserved for luring Hufflepuffs behind the greenhouses. "He tries not to let on. Thinks no one will notice because he's so quiet."

Remus smiled, just slightly, his mouth parting and his lips curving, and his tongue darted out, wet and pink. His trousers were pushed down now, bunched up heavily around his knees, and James stared openly, following the silvery scars that scored Remus' thighs, watching the measured slide and pull of Remus' hand. He twisted his wrist, his hips lifting and his breath hitching, and a broken noise caught and died in the back of James' throat.

"He likes to watch, likes to be watched," Sirius whispered. He smoothed a hand over James's shoulder, and his mouth dipped behind James' ear. "If you keep watching, he'll keep touching, keep touching until he comes all over himself." A flicker of tongue, just at the lobe, and James bit down on his lip. "He's gonna come in your bed."

"Fuck."

James was hard, and he shouldn't have been -- not from listening to Sirius talk or watching Remus wank, but Sirius was naked, and Remus' hips were snapping up to meet his hand, and James' face was on fire. Sirius wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, grinding his cock against James' arse as his hand slid down James' body, and James moaned, shaking as Sirius rubbed and stroked and squeezed his cock through his trousers. Sirius was touching him, and Remus was watching Sirius touch him, and James was going to come if Sirius didn't stop. He was going to come in his trousers, just like Remus was going to come on his bed and Sirius was going to come on him, and for a single, twisted fuck of a moment, James was sure he wanted just that -- wanted to see watch Remus come while he twisted and gasped in his sheets, wanted to feel Sirius' come hot and wet all over his arse.

He'd seen Sirius come once, he'd _watched_ Sirius come once, just like he was watching Remus now, and why why _why_ had Sirius brought McQuinn into this? They'd been drunk that night, they'd lost their minds that night, and James had nearly fallen apart that night, because Sirius' hand had bumped his cock on its way to McQuinn's hip, and --

Oh.

_Oh._

Sirius' lips traced the line of James' jaw, and James remembered, remembered McQuinn asking them to kiss -- _Just the once, I promise I won't tell_ \-- remembered how that had been what pushed him over the edge, not McQuinn's hands or her helpless, breathy sighs, but Sirius' mouth pressed hard against his and Sirius' tongue pushing slickly at his lips.

James twisted around, his hands catching in Sirius' hair, and their mouths crashed together, lips and tongues and teeth, and it was perfect, absolutely perfect, and then it was better, because Remus made that bloody fucking noise again, and James opened his eyes just in time to see Remus' hips arch off the bed and his cock pulse and twitch in his hand.

"Bed," Sirius gasped, his fingers bruising James' hips. "Now."

James hesitated just long enough to grab his wand and lock the door.

 

**(two)**

_Well, that's the biggest load of bollocks I've heard in my life._

_James is a mate, but he's got Quidditch on the brain. The way he tells it, every match's the best he's had in a long time, and usually, the other six blokes never come into it. I'm sure he didn't tell you that Carter set him up for half his goals, or that I saved him from a Bludger that would've broken his arm. Of course he didn't. He's a one man team, our James. Ask Evans -- she'll tell you how he goes on. Well, hang on. Might not want to ask her just yet. If she's still sore about those Acromantulas, she's like to hex you between the eyes._

_Oh, that. Yeah, well. I'd rather not get into it. Nosy git. Don't know why you're interested, really -- it was just one of those things, yeah? We didn't plan it, if that's what you think. We didn't up and decide to strip down and have a toss, or anything. It was just one of those things. Seemed like a good idea at the time, and that. I don't regret it, or anything -- why would I? I mean, it was James and Remus, and that's all right. I don't care what James says, I may pull more birds than the lot, but I don't let just anyone touch my knob. And I'd never gone in for a bloke before, but James and Remus are my best mates, so I'm not fussed. I'm really not. I just don't want to get into it, and really, I don't need to. James' version should be enough to keep you warm, even if it's a bloody pile of rubbish._

_Yeah, rubbish. Peter did have a date, but I don't know where James got the Hufflepuff. She's from Ravenclaw, wossname -- short, brown hair, plays Quidditch -- Knopf, maybe? Or Hapkirk. No tits, but fabulous legs. I'm sure you've seen her going about the place. Oh, right. My point is, Peter did have a date, but James buggered the rest. He didn't even have detention that night. No, he didn't -- I did, and before you start in, I shouldn't have. I really shouldn't have, and I know I'm supposed to say that, but it's true. I didn't do anything that night, except leave Remus alone with a cauldron when I know he's pants at Potions. It wasn't my fault he made such a sodding mess. I wasn't anywhere near that broom cupboard._

_Not that McGonagall cared, mind. Pinned the whole thing on me, she did, and I got stuck sorting hairpins from matchsticks while Remus got to lie around upstairs. Got to lie around with James, more like. Yeah, it was those two. James can blame me all he wants, but I wasn't even there. McGonagall kept me late -- mad for my arse, that one -- so they had hours to themselves. Hours, and they apparently put it to good use. They were snogging when I walked in._

_Yeah, snogging. You know, with their mouths. Tongues, and that. Well, James' tongue, mostly -- it was bloody everywhere. And he wonders why Evans won't give him a date._

_I was gobsmacked, really. Never would've thought them for that sort of thing. James is always on about some skirt or another, and if he was itching to have one off with another bloke -- well, I guess I figured he'd have come to me first. No reason to bother Remus with it. I mean, Remus isn't all that bent. James just thinks he is, because he likes books and that, but that doesn't mean anything. My brother likes books, and I'm sure he's shagging at least one of our cousins. Not that I envy him, mind. Mad birds, the lot. Shrieking mad._

_Of course, I hung around. Didn't much see the point in running off -- I'd already seen what they were up to, and James' tongue -- right. I thought I said I didn't want to get into it._

_Oh, and Gudgeon? James cocked that up, too. He was with Mahit Patil that night, and everyone knows it._

~

At breakfast, the _Prophet_ had predicted the rain would let up, but if anything, it had only worsened over the course of the day. Sirius watched the water smash into the window, and tapped a hairpin on the table until the point bent and broke. His face split with a yawn so violent and wide his jaw very nearly came unhinged. McGonagall turned, frowning sharply; Sirius straightened, his hands twitching toward the rubbish in front of him, and did his level best to look industrious.

 _Hairpin. Matchstick. Hairpin. Matchstick_.

Bloody McGonagall. If she hadn't taken his wand, he would've had this mess sorted hours ago.

 _Matchstick. Hairpin. Matchstick. Matchstick_.

Lightning streaked passed the window, causing the stained-glass depiction of Godric Gryffindor's fourth marriage to flare in a flash of red and gold and white. A rumble of thunder followed shortly, and McGonagall frowned at Sirius again -- a frown so pointed and deep it suggested that Sirius had done her a personal wrong. Sirius countered with a smile -- one part sheepish, two parts abashed, and one part handsome and dishonoured pureblood cast-off with no real prospects but a winning personality -- but she parried with flared nostrils and a tightly set jaw and, beating a hasty retreat, Sirius returned to his work with a sigh.

_Hairpin. Hairpin. Matchstick. Hairpin._

He might've won that round, if he'd attacked with tossed hair or a coyly arched eyebrow -- or the twist to his mouth that forced his dimple to deepen, a move he privately considered his secret weapon -- but Sirius preferred not to gamble when he knew the odds were not in his favour. McGonagall had been stroppier than usual all day, and the last thing he needed was another hour of detention, because he rather wasn't in the mood.

Not that he ever was in the mood, really, but right now, another hour would only be adding insult to injury. It was bad enough she had him sifting through a pile of first-year cock-ups when he didn't deserve to be in detention in the first place.

_Hairpin. Matchstick. Matchstick. Matchstick._

Stretching, he sighed again, and his stomach grumbled. Bloody Hell, he was hungry. He could've murdered a plate of fish and chips. Not the sad, soggy affair the house-elves believed to be fish and chips, but the solid, crisp, and terribly greasy stuff found at the Muggle place by Moony's Aunt Mildred's house.

Oh, right.

Bloody Moony.

_Matchstick. Hairpin. Hairpin. Matchstick._

Frowning, Sirius wondered if that wretched orange dreck was still in his hair. A few lingering drops spotted his tie and the cuffs of his shirt, and there was a rather unsightly splatter across the front of his trousers, arranged in a pattern and concentration that suggested he had attempted and succeeded in rogering a pumpkin.

No one -- _no one_ \-- exploded a cauldron like Remus. Under normal circumstances, Sirius found this amusing, but under normal circumstances, Remus was only allowed near a cauldron during Potions, when Sirius was on the other side of the room and safely partnered with James, and while Sluggy waited at Remus' elbow with a sour expression and a Shield Charm at the ready. This, however, had been the furthest thing from normal. He had been minding his own business when he opened that broom cupboard, and the last thing he could've expected was to be greeted by a thick, pulsing sheet of slime the exact colour of a bloody Satsuma.

_Matchstick. Matchstick. Matchstick. Matchstick._

He still didn't know what Remus had been trying to accomplish. He didn't much care, either -- some mischief was best managed alone -- but he was rather curious as to why Remus had even bothered. He rarely caused trouble without James pulling on his sleeve and Sirius whispering in his ear, and on the handful of occasions he'd acted on his own, he'd showed enough sense to leave Potions alone.

_Hairpin. Matchstick. Hairpin. Bowtruckle._

Sirius paused, a slow smile spreading across his face as the small, brown thing fought and struggled to escape his fist. He spared a quick glance at McGonagall, who was still hunched over the stack of essays she'd been marking all night, and quickly tucked it into his pocket. Great fun, Bowtruckles were, and after she'd shrieked at him at lunch for no bloody reason -- really, he hadn't touched that statue -- Evans was due for an unpleasant surprise in her bag.

_Matchstick. Matchstick. Hairpin. Hairpin_

The clock on McGonagall's desk announced the hour with a series of bright jangles, and Sirius wondered if she was frowning at the hour or the clock's apparent enthusiasm. Her eyes ticked from the clock to Sirius, then to the clock, then back to Sirius, and Sirius took exception to her sigh -- it was Remus' fault he was even here, and this entire waste of time had been her idea.

"Mister Black," McGonagall said finally. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, professor," Sirius replied, flipping a stray matchstick into the appropriate box. He rather liked Muggle matchsticks, because he could light them on his teeth, but Remus insisted it was horribly flash, and James whinged on like a girl when he smoked. "I finished just now."

"Very well," she said, pushing away from her desk. Lightning flashed again as she approached, and the window glowed behind her in warning. "I will ask again, since you were unwilling to provide a satisfactory answer before -- for what purpose were you brewing a Babbling Beverage?"

"What? Oh, right." Pausing, Sirius ran a hand through his hair. His fingers caught in a bit of leftover evidence, and he quickly decided that Remus was as hopeless as they came. A first year could brew a Babbling Beverage with his cauldron tied behind his back. "It was nothing, really -- just a bit of a joke."

"Intended for whom?"

"Remus." It was the second name that came to mind. Snape had been the first, but Sirius was fairly certain McGonagall hadn't forgotten about that business with the Erumpet horns and the sparkly body paint. Of course, it was a gamble either way; McGonagall could be a soft touch for Remus, depending on the time of day, the size and contents of her last meal, and the current astrological significance of Venus. "I was returning a favour. The other night he hexed my underpants pink."

McGonagall's mouth twitched. "I see." She considered him for a moment, then waved him off. "You may go."

"Thank you, Professor," Sirius said quickly. "Have a good evening."

"Oh, Mister Black," she said, just as reached the door. "Leave the Bowtruckle on the desk."

"Right."

Sirius stepped out into the hall, pulling his mirror from his pocket before McGonagall's door was properly closed. He separated it from a few other bits and bats -- two Knuts, an inch's worth of dirty string, a half-sucked Sherbet Lemon, and a suspiciously tan Every Flavour Bean Sirius was fairly convinced was vomit -- and dusted the glass with the sleeve of his shirt.

"James," he whispered, as he started for Gryffindor Tower. "James."

In spite of the flickering torches lining the walls, the corridor was fairly dark. Sirius held the mirror up to his face and peered at it until his eyes crossed.

"Oi, James!" Sirius said, a bit louder. "You're not sore, are you? About earlier?" James had tried to contact him twice, but it hadn't seemed safe to reply. McGonagall was quicker on the uptake than Filch; she would've noticed if he'd started talking into his lap. "James?"

James' stubborn silence continued. Sirius gave the mirror a few good hard shakes, but finally decided the James was asleep. Sighing, he turned another corner and tucked the mirror away. It wasn't all that late -- in fact, Sirius thought it was still early enough for a last-minute spot of pranking -- but James could be a lazy sod. As far as James' favourite hobbies went, sleeping ranked just below wanking, Quidditch, and dodging hexes from Evans.

The last was always good for a laugh. James liked to think he was going to give as good as he got, but the soul-curdling, banshee-like wail Evans favoured when she was really worked up never failed to shut off James' brain. He mostly just stood there and blinked at her wand, so things usually ended with James twitching, gurgling, and -- on one very memorable occasion -- foaming at the mouth. James would be in a right state, if Remus wasn't brilliant in Defence, and if Sirius hadn't grown up in a house full of bloody-minded Slytherins. Between the two of them, they could counter a wide variety of spots, rashes, boils, fungi, protrusions, discolourations, and infestations of vermin.

Cauliflower-ears and hammer-toes were still a bit of a stick, but Remus insisted they were getting closer every day.

"Ah. The abomination returns."

This corridor was the long way back to Gryffindor, but Sirius always used it. He never passed on an opportunity to needle his family.

"I have," Sirius said brightly, smiling up at the portrait of some long-dead relation. Vindimatrix Black, according to the tarnished nameplate nailed to her frame. "You look absolutely dreadful this evening." She lifted her chin, a gesture that reminded Sirius strongly of his mother. "Did you miss me?"

"I hardly notice your absences or arrivals," Vindimatrix replied. Sirius had seen her name on the family tapestry, but he couldn't remember if she came from his mother's side or his father's side. "You are beneath my notice." Of course, if you went far enough back, his mother's side _was_ his father's side. "You are a disgrace."

"I aim to please," Sirius commented. Leaning closer, he surveyed her features in detail. Long nose, thin lips, close-set eyes -- it would be difficult making things worse. Her face hardened under his scrutiny, which only served to deepen the wrinkles around her mouth, and Sirius grinned. When all else failed, it was best to go with an undisputed classic. He hefted his wand. "You know, I've been thinking -- your face could do with a bit of work."

"Filth!" she snapped, jerking her shoulders. Her chin disappeared into the high collar of her dress, which rather made her look like a withered, inbred turtle. "You wouldn't dare!"

Sirius lifted an eyebrow. "Try me."

In the end, it was the longest, most glorious moustache Sirius had ever seen. As expected, it didn't do much for her general appearance, but it was long and glorious and striped in Gryffindor colours that _glowed in the dark_ , and her howls of rage were still assaulting his ears when he was a flight of stairs and three corridors away.

" _BLOOD TRAITOR! DISREPUTABLE CUR! I DEMAND YOU REMOVE THIS MONSTROSITY AT ONCE!_ "

Delighted, Sirius ran and laughed until his sides burned and his stomach ached. Detention was inevitable -- he could already see the look on McGonagall's face -- but the memory of his great-great-great-great-great-great-great aunt's eyes widening and rolling in fury would make every moment of trophy-polishing more than worth it. Shaking, he slumped against a statue of Bartholomew the Bloody and tried to catch his breath. Merlin's pants, that had been beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, he was tempted to go back and have another look.

"Go on," the statue grumbled, slapping Sirius' thigh with the flat of his scimitar. "I'll not be groped by the likes of you."

Sirius straightened, choking back another round of snickers. He moved a bit further down the corridor, and came face to toe with an extremely odd pair of feet.

Well, they were normal-looking feet, except that they didn't seem to be attached to anything. They cut off precisely at the ankle, and Sirius thought he recognised those shoes. They were grotty enough to be James', but they looked a bit too small. They were also too small to be Remus', and Sirius doubted Remus would be hanging around the halls. He'd had his knickers in a twist over an Arithmancy essay for the last three days, and as far as Sirius knew, he planned to mope around the dorm until he got it finished.

"Peter?" Sirius asked.

"Bugger off."

Sirius snorted. Six years, they'd been friends, and Peter still hadn't learned that it was never that easy. Sirius reached out, aiming at where the feet suggested the rest of Peter would be, and grabbed a large handful of nothing.

Well. This was awkward.

"Sirius," Peter said thinly. His hair was mussed, sticking up at several strange and impossible angles. He carefully removed his hands from his companion's sweater. "I'm sure you know Miranda."

Sirius blinked. He didn't remember the name, but he did remember the time and place -- under the Quidditch stands, after Ravenclaw had beaten Hufflepuff. It had been his fourth year and her fifth, and they hadn't got much done because Filch's cat had come nosing around. She narrowed her eyes, and Sirius smiled. He hoped she'd learned a nail-filing spell since then, otherwise Peter would have marks in the morning, marks he wouldn't want to account for if her boyfriend came asking questions. Sirius didn't remember his name, either, but he was a burly, foul-tempered fellow with rather hairy arms and legs.

"Sirius," Peter repeated, in a voice that suggested he very badly wanted to wring his hands. "Do you mind?"

"Oh, right. I was just passing through," Sirius said. "I only stopped because your feet looked lonely."

Peter made _that_ face -- the one he made when he thought his Ancient Runes book was playing tricks on him. Sirius maintained they weren't tricks; they were perfectly legitimate dirty words. "My feet?"

"Yes, your feet," Sirius said, dangling the Cloak in Peter's face. "What's the first rule, then?"

Peter considered this. "Always ask James."

"Yeah, all right." Sirius waved that off, since it was the one he habitually broke. "What's the second?"

"Oh, I -- um." Peter shifted uncomfortably and chewed at his lip. "Cover everything?"

Sirius nodded. "That's the one." Nudging Peter toward Miranda, he unfurled the Cloak and tossed it over their heads. "There we are," he continued, adjusting the folds until Peter's legs and feet disappeared. "Can't see a thing." He fumbled around, catching them by a shoulder each, and turned them until they were placed just so. "Hang on." He twitched up one end and folded it around. "All right. Carry on."

"Thanks, Sirius."

Sirius stepped back and smiled. Bartholomew the Bloody had a perfect view of Miranda's arse, and Peter's hand was already there.

"Any time."

After one last look, Sirius hurried away; being caught at the scene of the crime was an amateur's mistake and a very bad show. He went up the Gryffindor stairs as quickly as he could, with just a short break at each landing to laugh and catch his breath. That hadn't been half bad. It hadn't been as beautiful as the portraits glowing, Gryffindor, handlebar moustache, but it would do. It was enough to be going on with, until he could wake James and get something done properly. And Peter -- Peter was unbelievable. Six years, and he still hadn't learned that hallways were no good for that sort of thing. Sirius wondered why he hadn't gone for one of the usual places, like the greenhouses, or the Astronomy Tower, or that funny room that only opened when it wanted to.

He also wondered why he was locked out of his dorm.

" _Alohomora_ ," he muttered.

The door -- which was prone to stick, due to a never-discussed incident involving a Quaffle, a uniform skirt, and a fairly ridiculous amount of water -- sighed to a stop after opening less than an inch. The lamps were lit; a small finger of yellowish light painted Sirius' arm as it pushed through the crack. He heard the soft rustle of cloth, and a short, nervous chuckle. Sirius gave the door a push, his palm flat against the warped and weathered wood. It sighed again, but didn't bother to move.

"Yeah. Do that again."

Sirius froze, his mouth falling open, and a quick shiver ran up his spine.

_Sleeping, indeed -- James is with a girl!_

Holding his breath, Sirius leaned nearer and peered into the room. He shivered again. A good mate would go downstairs and sleep on the couch. Of course, a better mate would've remembered what the ruddy mirrors were for, and given Sirius some warning. The door hissed, and gritting his teeth, Sirius snatched his hand away. Right. He was leaving. He really was. Just as soon as he saw who James had pulled. If she was a minger, he'd be back up the stairs first thing in the morning, ready to take the piss. If she was fit -- well, maybe he'd go inside and invite himself to stay.

James probably wouldn't mind. They'd split a bird between them a few months back, and it was something Sirius would definitely do again.

Sirius moved closer to the door, his shoulder pressed against the jamb. He caught a glimpse of James, who was sitting cross-legged on the dormitory floor. His bent knees made sharp and sudden angles, and the heavy silence was peppered with short, hitched breaths and the slick, wet sounds of kissing. Sirius shifted, turning a bit more to the left, but he could only see the back of James' head. A hand was tangled in his hair, long fingers twisting through the strands. James made a thin, breathy noise as they pulled apart, and the hand slipped down, curving at the base of his neck. They paused, gasping for air. James cocked his head to the side, and Sirius very nearly swallowed his tongue.

_Bloody Hell._

James leaned in again, his open mouth glancing clumsily off Remus' jaw. James' hands were folded in his lap, but they were anxious, restless; they pulled and knotted at the tails of his shirt, as if desperate to go somewhere, or do something, but unsure of how to get started. Their noses bumped. Remus ducked his head, and James snickered softly as his glasses slid down and hit Remus' cheek. Remus smiled, his face flushed, his mouth shining and wet and very, very red. James darted forward, steadying Remus with a hand on his shoulder, and his tongue sneaked out, swiping across Remus' lips and pushing messily into his mouth.

The floor creaked, and Sirius realised he'd walked inside the room.

He was standing over them, and he was close -- _so close_ \-- with just a thin stretch of carpet and one of Peter's socks separating his foot from Remus' thigh. James' hand twitched up toward Sirius' leg, then jerked back and returned to the safety of his lap. His face was pink, and heat coloured Remus' ears. Their knees were touching, and Sirius' shadow cut a dark stripe between their bodies.

"Close the door, Padfoot."

Sirius blinked, trying and failing to move his feet. He fumbled for his wand, but it felt odd in his hand, like it didn't belong there, and the spell he needed quickly skittered away.

" _Colloportus_ ," Remus said quietly.

Sirius watched his mouth move. It looked softer, redder, and Sirius thought he could see the wet paths left behind by James' tongue.

"What's this, then?" he asked finally. His voice was even, but slightly clipped. "Having fun without me?"

"Look, Sirius," James said quickly. "It's not -- I mean, we were just -- you know, it was -- we're not, oh fuck it all." He sighed and rubbed at his mouth. "We got to talking, and that, and--"

"--talking?" Sirius asked loudly. "Talking?"

"Yes, talking," James replied. "About -- well, I don't really know, any more -- about Gudgeon, or something." He hunched over a little, and picked at a snag in the carpet. "Yeah, it was. Gudgeon, I mean. Because he's -- well, you know, he's bent and that -- and then Remus, Remus said he'd never kissed a bloke, and I said I hadn't either, so."

Sirius chewed at his lip. "Only, you have."

"I have, what?"

"You've kissed a bloke," Sirius muttered.

James looked startled, his mouth working silently, and Sirius wondered sourly if James had forgotten -- but no, his face was colouring, flushing darker as heat and embarrassment burned across his cheeks. His eyes flicked back to the carpet, and he began pulling at the snag in earnest. Remus studied James and Sirius in turns, then stilled. His mouth tugged with a curious smile, like he'd lost something, and it turned up in the last place he remembered to look and the first place he should've thought it would be.

"It was just the once," James admitted quietly. "There was a bird -- that Ravenclaw, McQuinn." He waved a hand between himself and Sirius, as if the empty space contained the explanation his mouth couldn't find. "Turned out, we'd both been seeing her, and we figured -- I mean, we were already sharing her, yeah?" The loose fibre on the carpet pulled free with a snap. "She asked. Wanted to see us kiss, so we did."

Remus considered this, his face carefully blank as he studied James and fiddled absently with his wand. Slowly, he looked up at Sirius, regarding him with wide eyes. His tongue passed over his lower lip, sweeping slickly from one corner of his mouth to the other, and Sirius watched it -- watched it so intently that he didn't see the Trip Jinx coming, didn't realise Remus had spoken until his legs deserted him and the floor came up to meet him.

He landed between them, sprawled on top of them with James' knee digging into his side and Remus' thigh pressed against his back. He struggled to right himself, searching for leverage somewhere between James' leg and Remus' sleeve, but Remus caught him and held him still, first with his hands, warm and firm in the centre of his chest, and then with his mouth, hard and hot and fast.

"Moony," Sirius gasped. "What--"

Remus kissed him again, bringing their mouths together roughly, and Remus' was open and wet and hungry. His tongue pushed against Sirius' lips, slick and quick and insistent, and Sirius' hands came up, his fingers snaring Remus' shirt as their tongues twined and tangled. _I'm kissing Moony. I'm bloody kissing Moony_. A noise caught in Remus' throat, so dark and low it was almost a growl, his teeth grazing Sirius' lip, and hands snagged in Sirius' hair, but Remus' were cradling Sirius' face. _James. James is touching me. I'm bloody kissing Moony, and James is touching me_. He shivered, gasping into Remus' mouth. Remus was hard, his cock pressed neatly against Sirius' thigh, and when Sirius reached a blind, fumbling hand into James' lap his fingers tightened in Sirius' hair and his legs twisted under Sirius' body.

"Go on," Remus murmured, pulling away slightly. "Kiss him. You let the girl see." He brushed his thumb over Sirius' mouth. "I want to see."

Sirius reached up as James leaned down, and their mouths met clumsily, his lips sliding over James' cheek and James' tongue wet against his jaw. Sirius righted them quickly, his hands slipping up to James' neck, and James gasped, pushing down, choking on Sirius' name as his cock dragged against Sirius'. _Fuck. James._ Sirius deepened the kiss, nipping at James' lips and sucking James' tongue into his mouth. He remembered this -- the way James tasted, the way their mouths seemed to just fit -- but it was better than before, because that silly bird wasn't watching and whispering and worming her way between them just as James' cock twitched against his thigh.

It _had_ twitched against his thigh, hot and hard and perfect, and he might've touched it, if McQuinn hadn't beat him to it.

_Fuck._

Moony's hand was in his trousers.

"Come on," Sirius said, pulling Remus down for a kiss. He curled a hand around Remus' neck, felt James' tongue flicker over his fingers as he mouthed Remus' skin. "Yeah."

He wasn't exactly sure how this was going to work, but they were bright lads. They'd figure something out.

 

**(three)**

_They both got it wrong, really._

_Gudgeon was with me the night he lost his eye, and don't bother making that face. The only thing we got up to was schoolwork, and Nifflers never came into it. We needed hellebore, for a Draught of Peace. James and Sirius wouldn't know that, because they pay attention in Potions about as often as they do in History of Magic. Niffler dung, I ask you. No, hellebore doesn't grow near the Whomping Willow, but Gudgeon wasn't interested in my opinion on the matter. Personally, I think he wanted a closer look at that tree. Well, he got his look, and the tree got his eye._

_And never mind all that about Benjy Fenwick and Mahit Patil -- Gudgeon's been seeing Maleficent Parkinson for years. He tries not to let on, because she's in Slytherin, but really, it's been years, and everyone knows it._

_Oh, and Peter's date? They got that all wrong, as well. You'd think, after bunking with him for all these years, that James and Sirius would know something about him. Like his middle name. Or the sort of girls he likes. Peter rarely bothers with Ravenclaws, because he's terrified of people he thinks are smarter than him. He doesn't really go in for Hufflepuffs, either. He likes them just fine, but he's territorial in his own way, and we're running short of Hufflepuffs who haven't already been seen to by Sirius or James. Or both. Peter did have a date that night, but Samantha Hopwell's in Gryffindor. Shame that didn't work out, really. She's a lovely girl, but she wanted someone more like James, and Peter -- well, I think Peter wants someone more like James, too._

_As for the rest -- that's also wrong, but I'd rather just leave it at that. We're friends, you know. Best friends. I know that doesn't explain it, but some things are best left alone. Things like that, I mean. Yes, well. If James and Sirius want to rabbit on to anyone who'll listen, I can't stop them. No, I can't. I could try, but we both know that would be a grand waste of time. Nothing for it, really, and I don't much care. I wouldn't much care, if they didn't have the whole thing arse about face._

_Oh, completely arse about face. It's daft, the way they're trying to lay the blame on each other, just daft. I mean, we did it together. It comes down to the three of us, so it doesn't really matter how it started. Well, it wouldn't matter, if James and Sirius weren't so keen on talking about it. I suppose they don't want anyone to think it was their idea. Of course, it was their idea. I wasn't even around when they got going._

_James didn't have detention that night. Neither did Sirius, and before you ask, I don't know how they managed it. Well, I don't know how James' managed it. Sirius managed it by letting McGonagall think I set fire to that tapestry. I didn't, of course. All I did was pick the wrong moment to come around the corner. I probably should've known, once I smelled the smoke, but I wouldn't have expected Sirius to flee the scene like that. I mean, I sometimes think he tries to get into trouble. He fancies McGonagall something terrible. So does James -- it's quite sickening really -- sorry. My point is, I had detention that night. They were upstairs. Upstairs and alone, while I was downstairs polishing McGonagall's silver. She's got quite a bit of silver, really. When I got back, they were already at it. The way things looked, they'd been at it for some time._

_Well, no. I wasn't all that surprised. Catching them at it was a bit much, but I can't say I'd never suspected. I'm not the only one, either -- half the school thinks they've been grabbing at each other for years. It's all that hugging, I suppose. And the hand-holding. And the whispering. They stand awfully close when they're whispering, and sometimes, Sirius will push his nose into James' neck. It might not mean anything, but it's not like he does it to anyone else. He certainly doesn't do it to me, not that I -- you know, I think I'll just leave it at that._

_Peter's middle name? It's Walter. He hates it, but I don't think it's nearly as dreadful as James'._

~

Remus rather liked Sirius, all things considered. It was a shame he needed to kill him, really.

_One hammered wine goblet, with a stem in the shape of a tree._

The rain regrouped after a sharp crack of thunder, and Remus listened to the odd, uneven pattern it played out on the window. His back ached, throbbing with a dull, slowly spreading pain that Remus suspected would not be content until it stretched from his neck to his arse. Across the room, McGonagall sighed from her perch in a wing-backed chair. She adjusted the book in her lap, and crisply turned a page.

_Three miniature spoons, from a Muggle tourist shop in Aberdeen._

His nose itched. Sighing irritably, he rubbed at it with his hand, but that only served to make it itch worse, because his sleeve fairly reeked of smoke. It wasn't the warm and pleasant woodsy smell caused by a fire crackling in the hearth, but the sour, acrid stench that came from charring something that had been pickling in its own dust for the better part of a century.

He sneezed, and a spoon slipped from his hand, hitting the table with a soft ping. McGonagall glanced up, her face expectant. Remus shrugged and looked away, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks.

_A pair of bookends shaped like cats._

Really, he should've known.

In their fourth year, after the common room's curtains had randomly kindled for the third time in as many months, Remus had forced himself to face facts. Specifically, James was as mad as a box of frogs. Sirius was slightly madder, because he was never happy unless something was burning.

This afternoon, that something had been a large and incredibly overwrought tapestry of Salazar Slytherin on a fox hunt. It had depicted an idyllic -- if somewhat dusty -- scene, and Slytherin had rode proudly in the company of a pale, dark-haired woman and a Malfoy whose name had been lost to time and indifference.

It was the woman who troubled Remus. Before Sirius scorched her, she could've passed for Regulus in a skirt.

Such an odd family.

_Order of Merlin, Second Class. Edward Robert McGonagall, Department of Magical Law Enforcement (Ret)._

McGonagall never shouted at Remus. She shouted at Peter occasionally, and she shouted at James routinely, and she shouted at Sirius so loudly and often that Remus frequently worried she was going to pull something, but she never shouted at Remus. She sighed at Remus. She frowned at Remus. She quietly pulled Remus aside and asked him why on earth would he do such a ridiculous thing, when he was the only one of the four that had ever showed a bit of sense.

She never got angry with Remus. She simply pinched the bridge of her nose and said she was disappointed.

 _Medal of Recognition, for Most Bludgers Returned in a Single Season. Minerva McGonagall, Beater, Gryffindor House, 1942_.

Beater?

Well, that explained a lot.

 _One serving dish, etched with a likeness of Finn mac Cumhaill_.

He really needed to finish that Arithmancy essay. Professor Calcutront hadn't complained yet, and he probably wouldn't for a few more days, but Remus disliked tardiness as a rule.

He also disliked detention. Really, Sirius was going to die.

_Matching candlesticks that rather favoured a pair of swords._

The clock chimed brightly, twittering like the sort of small, fluttery birds McGonagall probably chased as a cat. She closed her book with a snap and set it aside, brushing her robes as she rose.

"Mister Lupin," she said, lingering over the candlestick he'd just polished. "I trust you are finished?"

"Yes, professor," Remus said quietly. Her mouth turned slightly, and Remus swallowed a sigh. She really was the uncanniest woman. She could send him into fits of guilt without saying a single word. "Unless you've anything else for me to polish."

"Not tonight," she replied. "You may go."

He ducked his head quickly. "Thank you, professor. Have a good evening."

She watched him gather his things and heft his rucksack, and he flushed under the scrutiny. Anger prickled up just under his embarrassment, because it was Sirius' fault he was in this mess. He rubbed his nose again, and smelled more smoke. Turning, he hurried for the door, but McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Mister Lupin, I am quite curious -- what possessed you to destroy that tapestry?"

"Oh," he said carefully. "It cheeked me."

Slowly, she arched an eyebrow. "Potter and Black cheek you constantly. Please refrain from setting them on fire, whatever the provocation."

"Yes, professor."

Remus walked out of McGonagall's office and right into something solid. Well, solid and a little bit bendy. It folded away from him and toppled over with a pained squeak. Looking down, Remus realised he was standing on a Gryffindor first year whose name he didn't quite recall. He'd sent the boy to McGonagall last week for putting Dungbombs in the toilet -- Dungbombs, Remus later discovered, James had given the boy. He quickly removed his foot from the boy's thigh.

"Sorry, Andrews," Remus said, offering him a hand up. "All right, there?"

"I'm all right," he replied, eyeing Remus in a manner that could've only been described as suspicious. "It's Anderson, and you're bloody heavier than you look."

"I might be," Remus grumbled sourly. His bones were thick, from years of breaking and mending. "And you might be out of bed after curfew." It wasn't like he'd asked for thick bones. Of course, Anderson hadn't asked to be trodden on. Remus subsided. "What brings you downstairs this late?"

"I've a message for you," Anderson explained. His hair was roughly the colour of straw. "From Potter and Black."

Brilliant. That's precisely what Remus needed -- James and Sirius striving for more detention after he just served one he hadn't really earned. "Oh?"

"They said to meet them at the witch, whatever that means."

"If they wanted you to know what it meant," Remus said slowly, "they would've told you." Remus shifted, attempting to sidestep the boy, but he followed. "Thank you for the message." Anderson blinked like an owl. "Go back upstairs, then." Anderson blinked again. Slower. His eyes were terribly small and squinty. "It really is past curfew."

"Black said I'd be paid for my trouble," Anderson noted, giving Remus a pointed look. "A whole Chocolate Frog." It was Remus' turn to blink. "He said you'd be the one to pay me."

"What?" Remus asked. The next time Sirius fell asleep as Padfoot, Remus was going to take to his arse with a rolled-up copy of the _Prophet_. "I haven't got a Chocolate Frog."

Anderson considered this. "What've you got?"

"I haven't got anything," Remus replied, digging quickly through his pockets. "Half a Sugar Quill, a Knut, a button, and -- well, I'm not quite sure what that is," he muttered, stuffing what appeared to be black lint wrapped around a splinter of chicken bone back into his pocket.

"Deal."

"Fine," Remus said, herding the boy down the hall. At the next intersection, he nudged him toward a corridor that would take him back to the tower. "Back upstairs, now. If I do a bed-check tonight, you'd better be in yours."

"You've not done one all term," Anderson countered.

"Yes, well. There's a first time for everything," Remus snapped. "Go on, or I'll take you back down the hall and let McGonagall sort you out."

Thunder rattled at the sky, the sound muted by the castle's heavy walls, and Remus started down the corridor, leaving Anderson to his own devices. If Remus escorted him back, he'd be stuck for sure. Evans would start giving out about James and Sirius, and Gudgeon would ask about their Potions project, and never mind his Arithmancy essay -- if he got away at all, it wouldn't be until sunrise. He turned a corner and quickened his pace. The corridor was dark, but he didn't bother with lighting his wand. The portraits tended to complain this late, and there was one of an early Werewolf Rights activist who always asked what Remus was doing for the cause.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned and slowed. The One-Eyed Witch waited patiently against the opposite wall, and she appeared to be alone.

"James?" Remus asked, peering into the shadows. "Sirius?" He turned again, and again, then realised he was chasing his tail. "You still here, then?"

The shadows were silent. Leaning close to the witch, he hissed the password, popping his head into the passage as she shuddered out of the way. He was greeted by more shadows, and he set the witch to rights with a sigh.

"Sirius?" Silence. "James?"

Sighing again, he slouched against the witch's shoulder. McGonagall had kept him later than usual; they'd likely grown tired of waiting and gone back upstairs. If they had any sense at all, they were sleeping, which automatically meant they weren't. They'd probably found some girls to pester. Or one girl, depending on their moods. Straightening, he rolled his shoulders and rubbed the base of his neck. His back was fairly killing him, and McGonagall's detention had been enough nonsense for one night. He was going back upstairs, where he would finish his Arithmancy essay and go to sleep.

Halfway down the corridor, he heard something, and paused. "Sirius?"

"Excuse me, tall sir."

Remus glanced around, but he didn't see anyone, didn't see anything but more ruddy shadows. He took a step, felt a small but rather determined tug on his trousers and, looking down, found a tea-towel huddled near his ankle. It moved, and Remus gave a start.

"Pisky is sorry, sir," the house-elf began, "Pisky was not meaning to scare anyone."

"It's fine," Remus said carefully. James and Sirius thought house-elves were great fun -- mostly because they never ran out of food -- but Remus found them slightly unnerving. It was their eyes, really. And the self-punishment. And the tea-towels. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Oh no, sir!" she squeaked, spots of colour darkened her sallow cheeks. "Pisky would never be asking for favours, sir." She clutched nervously at her tea-towel, and Remus decided that the tea-towels were definitely part of the problem. "But maybe Pisky could be doing something for you."

Remus blinked. Either this conversation was taking a surreal turn, or he'd spent too much time around James and Sirius. "How's that?" he asked warily.

"Pisky sees that sir is looking for his friends," she explained brightly, "and Pisky is thinking she knows sir's friends -- Potter is being the one who likes warm milk at bedtime, and Black is being the one who tries to send Pisky for Muggle fish and chips."

"That's them," Remus muttered darkly. "Have you seen them?"

"Pisky was seeing them, some hours ago. In the kitchens, Pisky was giving them sandwiches and treacle and pumpkin juice they were wanting to take up to their rooms."

"All right," Remus said, mostly to himself. "Whatever they're up to, they're not doing it here."

"Pisky is sorry, sir." Releasing her tea-towel, she recaptured two small handfuls of Remus' trousers. "Pisky was not wanting to make sir angry. Is sir wanting to step on Pisky's toes?"

"No."

"Is sir wanting to beat Pisky with his own hands?" she asked, turning to offer him a clear swing at her arse.

"No!" Remus sputtered, inching away slowly. "Really, I'm not angry." He took a few stumbling, backward steps, but she followed, her hands spread. "I'm glad, actually, because this means I can go back upstairs and get some sleep."

"Oh, is sir wanting warm milk?" she asked, frowning slightly when Remus shook his head. "Is sir wanting some food, in case sir's friends have eaten it all?"

He was a bit peckish, now that she mentioned it. "Well," he said slowly, giving careful thought to the idea of a hot corned-beef on rye. "No. I'm fine," he said finally. If he ate, he'd fall directly asleep, and he'd never see to that Arithmancy essay. "Thank you. Just -- I mean, if you wouldn't mind, just go back to the kitchens."

She disappeared as soon as the words were out of his mouth, leaving Remus to blink at the suddenly empty space near his ankle. He wandered down the hall a bit, paused, then wandered a bit further. Lightning flashed passed the row of tiny, square windows near the top of the wall, and Remus studied the shadows for anything resembling a tea-towel. When he didn't see one, and she didn't reappear, he waved the whole thing off and started making his way back to Gryffindor.

Three corridors, two staircases, and a rather argumentative and bloody-minded suit of armour later, Remus turned a corner and walked right into Peter, in the same way he'd walked into Anderson roughly an hour early. Only Peter, who was a bit taller than Anderson, and considerably heavier, grunted and swayed, rather than falling arse over teakettle.

"Moony," Peter said quietly. His nose twitched. "Funny I should run into you, really."

"I believe I ran into you," Remus replied, wondering if anyone in the castle was actually asleep at this hour. "What are you up to, then?"

"Oh, you know. No good, and all that," Peter said, and Remus frowned. Something wasn't quite right. "You?"

_Well, I got detention I didn't deserve, got cheeked by a first year, then robbed in payment for a message I didn't want, took a long walk for no reason, and I may have been propositioned by a house-elf._

"Nothing much, really. I was just heading upstairs."

Peter's mouth opened, then closed. His nose twitched again. "Listen, since you're here and everything, can I have the password to the Prefects' loo?"

"Why?" Remus asked cautiously.

Peter's nose twitched _again_. "I fancy a bath, is all."

"Right now?" Remus asked. It was rather late, and something about Peter really wasn't right. Peter shrugged, and Remus suddenly realised what it was; his left arm stopped just below the elbow. Remus narrowed his eyes at the seemingly empty space. "Who's that, then?"

"Who's what?"

"Who's whoever you've got under the Cloak!"

"Oh," Peter mumbled, his cheeks pinking. "There's nobody under the Cloak."

Sighing, Remus rubbed a hand over his face. He was far too tired for this, and much like the chat with the house-elf, he'd apparently lost control of this conversation well before it started.

"If there's no one under it," Remus began slowly, "how is it not puddled on the floor?" Peter shifted from foot to foot and chewed at his thumbnail. "Did you ask James, at least?"

"Oh, well -- um, not quite," Peter said. "I didn't find him." He shifted a bit more and rubbed at his face. "I left him a note," he offered. Remus, who could already hear James' long and vehement rant on things like ownership, thieving, and the need to remove any and all revolting stains prior to return, simply shook his head. "Well, I'll ask him when I get back."

Remus was tempted to launch into an explanation on the differences between before and after, but decided to save it for another night. "Right, then. Who's under the Cloak?"

"You won't take points?"

"Yes, because I'm not out after curfew," Remus snapped. He grabbed Peter's arm, followed it until it stopped, and pulled when his fingers met cloth. It swirled away, hanging limply between Peter and Remus' arms, and Remus lifted an eyebrow at the blushing, mortified face of Samantha Hopwell. The colour spreading across her cheeks clashed horribly with her fiery hair, and Remus threw up his hands. "Dungbeetle."

"What?"

"Dungbeetle," Remus said, as he started to walk away. "The password is Dungbeetle. Go on, then," he added, as he reached the end of the corridor. "If it means I can get some sleep, I hope you have a fabulous time."

The stairs to Gryffindor seemed steeper than usual, and halfway up, Remus began to suspect they'd multiplied when no one was looking. His legs were on fire by the time he reached the top and, considering the time he'd spent hunched over McGonagall's silver, and the time he'd wasted having conversations with people considerably shorter than him, his back wasn't doing much better. To say the very least, he was not best pleased to find the dormitory door locked.

"Oh, for -- _Alohomora_!"

The door jerked, swinging open with a hiss. The lamps were dimly lit; a soft triangle of light crept out into the hallway, wavering as it spread under Remus' feet. Remus took a step, then froze, his fingers curling around the jamb.

_Ah._

Really, he should've known.

His shadow sneaked into the room, stretching into a long thin point that faded just before reaching James' foot. He was naked, his long legs shaking and his back pressed against the opposite wall. Sirius held him there, one large hand pinning his hip and the other resting on his thigh. James moaned, his head tipping forward then back and the light catching and playing along the lines of his throat. He reached for Sirius, his hands snagging in Sirius' hair, and Remus watched as James' cock disappeared into Sirius' mouth.

"Fuck. Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."

The room was stuffy and warm, but Remus shivered, a chill sweeping over his skin. This explained so much -- why Sirius had set fire to that tapestry and let Remus take the fall, why James had arranged for Anderson to send him on a fool's errand.

Why on some nights, Sirius would crawl into James' bed grumbling about insomnia and nightmares, and why on those nights, James would cast a Silencing Charm, when he rarely bothered on the nights he slept alone.

Sirius pulled back, tracing his tongue along the length of James' cock before swirling it around the head, and James hissed, his chest hitching and his hips snapping forward. His hands tightened in Sirius' hair, his fingers curling in the strands, and Sirius' hand slipped from his thigh and disappeared between his legs. James moaned again, his back arching away from the wall, and Remus watched as James twitched and shuddered and came down Sirius' throat.

"You're all right," James said shakily, pulling Sirius up for a kiss. "Maybe better, yeah?"

"I'm sure," Sirius pressed into James, rubbing his cock against James' hip as James licked and bit at his mouth. "You're just saying that 'cause you like the way you taste."

James snickered into Sirius' neck and wrapped his hand around Sirius' cock. "Oh, yeah. You've found me out," he said, stroking Sirius hard and fast. "I only keep you around because I can't suck myself off."

"Fuck." Sirius hissed, and James smiled against his ear. "You can't say that kind of shite."

"Why not?" James asked, coaxing a moan from Sirius as he twisted his wrist. "You like it too much? You gonna lose it like you did back when we were fourteen?"

Gasping, Sirius ran his tongue along James' jaw. "You remember that, yeah?" he asked, pushing himself into James' hand. "Groping in the dark -- wetting our trousers 'cause we were afraid to take off our clothes?"

"Yeah," James said, ducking his head for a kiss. "Yeah."

He stroked Sirius harder, smoothing his other hand down Sirius' back, then over the curve of his arse, and Sirius stilled, shivering as James pushed a finger inside. He snapped his teeth at James' neck, and Remus watched as Sirius came between their bodies.

"Come on, let's find a bed," James said. "I don't fancy shagging you against a wall."

"What's that, Potter? Afraid you can't hold me up?" Sirius stepped back, his legs shaking. "I know -- you just want to look at my pretty face."

James snorted. "Hardly," he said, heading for his bed. "You've a face like a Nogtail's backside. I plan to put a pillow over it, and pretend you're as pretty as Remus."

_He doesn't mean that. He's just trying to wind Sirius up._

"Close the door, Moony."

Remus closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. He could hear the wind, the soft flutter of the lamps, and a blanket being torn away from the sheets. His skin was alive, flushing hot and cold at once. When he finally forced himself to look, they were curled together in James' bed and watching him with wide eyes.

"He said you're prettier than I am," Sirius said lightly, his head pillowed on James' arm. "We'll need to duel, as soon as you're done standing in the hallway."

Remus didn't have a response to that. He really didn't.

"Moony?" James asked quietly.

"You could've told me," Remus said finally. "I would've slept downstairs, if you wanted the place to yourselves." He frowned at the carpet, then the window. "You didn't need to get me detention and send me walking all over the castle."

"That was an accident, that detention," Sirius said. "I was trying to get Peter. I owed him one, for the pink underpants. I didn't realise McGonagall'd nabbed you until it was too late."

Remus sighed. "And the witch?"

"We were gonna meet you, really," James said. "Sirius wanted to buy you a Butterbeer, for that detention, but you were gone hours, and I got hungry, and we came back up here and -- well, we got distracted."

"I'll just bet."

"Moony," Sirius said, his mouth curving with a smile. "Close the door and come to bed."

_What?_

"In there? With you?"

Sirius nodded. "If you like."

"We won't touch you, or anything," James promised.

 _Really, I should've known_.

" _Colloportus_ ," Remus said, pulling at his tie. "And you'd just better. After the night I've had, you'd just better."

 

**(four)**

_Oh, for the love of toast._

_Those three are positively barmy, and it's quite clear they wouldn't know the truth if it slapped them in the face. I'm not surprised, mind. The way they go on, sometimes -- Potter and Black, especially -- I've always known it was all hot air and delusions. Definitely delusions, and this is no different -- smacks of their usual fare, really. Of course, you're rather sticking your nose in a place it doesn't belong. I mean, they can't expect too much privacy, not when they're always shouting and flashing about and banging off walls. If you were poking around in anyone else's business, I'd say it serves you right they fed you a steaming pile of tripe._

_Yes, tripe. Nearly all of it, really. Lupin was right on one score -- two, if you count what he said about Davy Gudgeon and Maleficent Parkinson, but everyone knows that -- Potter's middle name really is ridiculous. He'd deny having one at wandpoint, but I suppose that's understandable. Not that there's much about James Potter I care to understand, but if my middle name was Archibald, I wouldn't want anyone to know, either._

_Oh, and Pettigrew? His middle name is Winchester. I don't know where Lupin got Walter. Of course, I don't know where any of them get anything, really. Mad fancies just fall out of their ears. Take Pettigrew's date -- whomever he's meant to have been with. He didn't have one. No, he didn't, and honestly, I find it a bit odd that the other three are insisting he did. I haven't known them to give Pettigrew credit when it's due, and never mind when it isn't. Potter and Black are the worst, always treating him like he's simple -- right. My point is, he didn't have a date. He was in the library, revising with Mahit Patil. Yes, that Mahit Patil. The one who's not involved with Davy Gudgeon. I saw them, of course. Pettigrew and Patil, I mean. I stopped in the library that night, to tidy up a Transfiguration assignment._

_I was there about an hour or so. Well, I don't know what Pettigrew had planned after, and I'm not sure it matters, since he slept in the library. He nodded off in his Charms book, and Patil just left him there, because he didn't fancy carrying twelve stone of boy up six flights of stairs. I know, I know. Waking him would've solved it, or a spot of Wingardium Leviosa, but that's a boy for you. Can't see past their next meal, and always thinking with the wrong wand._

_Yes, well. Have you a better reason? For what they got up to, I mean. Oh, I'm quite sure they're best mates. That doesn't explain why they decided to crawl in one another's trousers that night. I don't care what Potter says about the shower -- that sort of thing doesn't happen around here. Well, it happened to Gordon Bagshot and Caradoc Dearborn, but they've a lovely flat in Milton Keynes now. Best mates, indeed. Either those three are mad for each other, or they had so much to drink that their bits took over their brains._

_Oh, they were in a right state. I don't know, really. They faffed off straight after dinner that night, and wherever they landed, they came back drunker than those monks in the Charms corridor. They were shouting and stumbling, and Potter was squawking out that insipid song he favours -- you know the one, about pointy hats and big feet -- and then they collapsed, right onto the floor. Well, they didn't do much of anything, at first, other than lie there in a heap. Then Black kissed Potter. After that, they made very short work of each other._

_They really did. I know they did, because I saw the whole thing, vulgar display that it was. I hate to disappoint you, but the stories they're putting about are a magnificent pack of lies._

_Very short work. And Potter wonders why I won't give him a date._

~

Lily didn't much care what the _Prophet_ had to say about things. The weather was positively dreadful, and it looked like it meant to stay that way.

 _The Animagus transformation is the most difficult and dangerous form of Transfiguration. It is heavily monitored by the Ministry of Magic; all Animagi must register with the Ministry, and people under the age of twenty-five are prohibited from attempting to transform_.

It also looked like the cold and wet wished to come inside the castle. Everything felt damp, and a persistent chill had settled over the library. Lily shivered. If only her robes were a bit thicker. She'd come straight from the common room -- which had been reasonably warm, thanks to a large, well-tended hearth and Sirius Black's unholy obsession with fire -- and she hadn't realised she'd need her cloak just for a quick trip to the library.

_The Animagus transformation can only be achieved through diligent study and practise. Those wishing to become an Animagus cannot chose their animal form, nor can they manipulate the spell toward a particular result. The animal form comes from within, and those wishing to transform must first learn to submit to it._

It was Hogsmeade next weekend; Lily supposed she ought to find herself a date before Potter looked at a calender and realised it was time to start hanging around again. Not that he ever stopped pestering her entirely. If she already had a date, he simply pestered her less. Insufferable toerag. He never gave her any peace.

She could ask Williams, maybe. Or Finnegan. He was younger than her, but he was nice enough, and he wasn't afraid to buy a girl a cup of tea. There was always Carter, of course; he was quite fit. He also played Quidditch, and that would irritate Potter terribly.

_It is believed that the animal form is a representation of the Animagus' true personality. Critical opinion differs on the connection -- if any -- to Animagus form and Patronus form._

The wind picked up, whipping restlessly through the trees. The branches swayed and knocked together, tapping impatiently at the windows, twigs and leaves pressing strange patterns into the water sheeting down the panes.

She hoped the weather cleared up by Hogsmeade. She hadn't been outside in days.

_An Animagus may find that their Patronus corresponds with their animal form, but according to Vinethrise, this is merely coincidence. A Patronus is malleable whereas an animal form is not. Vinethrise considers the Patronus to be a representation of superficial personality, or mood._

This morning, she'd found baby Acromantulas in her rucksack.

Again.

Perhaps she'd ask Lupin to Hogsmeade. They got on fairly well, and Potter would have fits.

_The Animagus transformation is a long and arduous process. While a select few Animagi have managed it in less, proper mastery of the spell generally takes between five and seven years._

Five years, or more. That rather seemed like a long time for just one spell; she could scarcely imagine anyone having the patience for it. And it was a bit of a gamble, really, not having any say about the animal form. What if it was terrifying? Or embarrassing? She suddenly had a vision of Potter, grinning insipidly as he sprouted fur and shrank into a stoat. She covered her mouth, choking quietly as she swallowed her giggles. Pince would go spare if she burst out laughing, but it was far too funny. Steadying herself, she reached for her essay and began folding it up. Just as she tucked it in her rucksack, a crumpled bit of parchment hit her in the shoulder.

Glancing up, she frowned at Peter Pettigrew. He was leaned across his table, smiling in a way she supposed he considered hopeful.

"What?" she whispered. Standing, she tossed her hair over her shoulder with an irritated flick of her wrist. He chewed at his lip. "Well, what?"

He flushed, his face twitching into something apologetic. "Would you have a quill?" he hissed. His tone was slightly too loud for the library, and Pince narrowed her eyes at him menacingly. "Only, I just broke mine."

"Well, I suppose," Lily replied, balancing her rucksack on her hip. She offered him a choice of two -- one black and one mottled brown -- and he opted for the latter. "Charms, is it?" she asked, nodding at his open textbook as he tested the quill's nib against the tip of his finger. "We've an exam, Monday. You'd best brush up on your Locomotion Charms."

"Right."

Ducking his head, Pettigrew returned to his book and flipped slowly through the pages. His rucksack was slumped at his elbow, yawning to reveal several Chocolate Frog wrappers and what appeared to be the gnawed remains of a blueberry scone. Lily wondered at that; food wasn't allowed in the library, and Pince was known for her ability to smell a stash at fifty feet. Pettigrew sighed, smoothing his hand over an illustration depicting the proper wand motion for _Mobilicorpus_ , and Lily considered his revising partner. Mahit Patil was at Pettigrew's left, dividing his time between chewing at this thumb and doodling in the margins of his book, and Lily silently wished them the best of luck as she stepped into the hall.

It should've been Potter helping him. They were friends, and Potter was -- well, Potter was a wonder at Charms, much to Lily's constant irritation. It also confused her, because Potter never seemed to study. Of course, he never seemed to do much of anything, except fly around on that ridiculous broom and prowl the halls with Black after curfew. He wasn't exactly the most helpful sort, either, which explained why Pettigrew was studying with a boy who, on most days, was lucky to locate the business end of his wand. If Pettigrew had bothered with asking Potter in the first place, Potter had probably refused because he and Black had plans to make something go off bang.

Boys. They really were quite useless.

Lily hurried toward Gryffindor, her quick footsteps echoing off the walls. The rain was quieter here, muted to a dull hum, but the chill was more pronounced, and Lily hid her hands inside her robes. A suit of armour jumped to attention as she approached, its visor flapping as it whistled rudely, and Lily rapped it smartly with her wand. The portrait opposite gave an affronted huff, muttering about behaviour unbecoming of young ladies and the decline of Wizarding society, and Lily offered her a smile. It was a sour old bat in a horribly naff dress, and she didn't like Lily very much, but she liked Black even less. She shrieked at him whenever the opportunity presented itself, so Lily figured she couldn't be all that bad.

She rounded the corner, stopping short a few paces into the hall. Two lower form Slytherin boys loitered at the other end, huddled in front of a statue of Gormlach the Gargantuan. They were lost in hushed conversation, their heads bent close and their muffled whispers buzzing through the air. Guilt rolled off them in waves. Lily took a careful step, then another, hoping to catch them unaware. The statue betrayed her, bellowing out a greeting at a volume not at all suitable for -- well, for anything, really. Jerking apart, the taller boy cast about for a means of escape while the shorter tucked his hand behind his back in a manner he likely believed was subtle.

"Hang on," Lily called, as they started to slink away. _Together_. Even Potter and Black had the sense to flee Prefects and furious professors in different directions. "Stop right there."

"Evening, Evans," the taller one said, a bit too quickly. He had mousy brown hair and an unfortunate number of spots. "What brings you out?" Gormlach snorted with all the delicacy available to a large chunk of stone, and the boy reddened, which did nothing for his skin. "Ghastly weather we're having."

"It's been ghastly," Lily replied shortly. He offered her a thin smile. Lily waved him off and pursed her lips at his companion, who was pudgy and slightly whey-faced. "What are your names?"

"Duncan Nott," the taller one said. His friend mumbled something unintelligible, and Nott sighed. "This here's Nigel Spencer."

"What brings _you_ out?" Lily asked.

"Well," Nott said slowly, "we were just having a walk." Lily arched an eyebrow. "Haven't walked much, with the rain and all."

"Yes, the rain." She frowned at Spencer; he flushed under her scrutiny, and tried to shrink into a wide shadow cast by Gormlach's arm. "What've you got, then?"

Spencer looked at Nott; when no help was forthcoming, he blinked and swallowed thickly. "Nothing," he croaked. Lily stepped closer. He squeaked, and a small, cloth bag dropped to the floor, landing neatly between his feet. "It's nothing."

" _Accio_ ," she murmured.

The bag lifted from the floor and sailed gracefully into her waiting hand. Noting the boys' discomfort, she opened it carefully. The handful of white powder inside looked fairly benign, but it smelled strongly of rose hips, and her nose immediately began to tingle.

"Itching powder," she declared. Nott and Spencer both became terribly interested in the floor. "What were you planning to do with it?"

Scratching his ear, Nott glanced down the hallway. Spencer shuffled his feet.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Potter an' Black," Gormlach boomed, his heavy voice rattling Lily's ears. "I 'eard 'em. They said they woz after Potter an' Black." Nott froze, and Spencer shuffled a bit more. Lily crossed her arms, the bag of itching powder dangling from one finger by the strings. "The spotty one, 'ere -- 'e's sore at 'em. Black, mostly. Said Black 'exed him wiv boils, or summat."

"Tentacles!" Nott snapped. "It was tentacles! Useless oik was naffed off at his brother, but his brother ducked and I took the jinx. He put me in bloody tentacles" -- he wiggled his fingers under his chin to better illustrate his point -- "and it was a whole day before Pomfrey sorted me out."

"Report to Slughorn, the both of you," Lily said, jabbing an accusatory finger in the direction of the dungeons. "And the next time you find yourself on the wrong side of a jinx, get a Prefect. Or your Head of House."

"What about my powder?" Nott asked stiffly.

Lily shivered and bit back a smile. "Confiscated," she said lightly. "It's evidence."

It was perfect. It was absolutely perfect, and the best part was, no one would ever suspect.

Well, Potter and Black would never suspect. Lupin was brighter than he let on -- even if he refused to realise his friends were contemptible, blustering louts -- but Pettigrew rarely had a thought without asking Potter for permission first, and Potter and Black could be incredibly thick. She was just one name on their long list of enemies, and really, they didn't give her nearly enough credit. They both thought she was a complete stick without a sense of humour or a scrap of imagination.

She tied the pouch tightly and tucked it into her pocket.

 _We'll see about that_.

It would be best if she did it now, if she was going to do it at all. Pettigrew was safely out of the way; the library was open for another hour, and he'd need to stay the course if he hoped to learn Locomotion Charms from Mahit Patil. She didn't know what Potter, Black, and Lupin were up to, but it probably didn't matter. They'd dashed off after dinner in a terrible hurry, which probably meant they had plans of some sort, and it had been a relatively quiet evening, which made her think they'd somehow escaped the castle.

After the chill lurking in the halls, the sudden warmth of the common room was almost uncomfortable. The fire roared like a furnace, and the long, yellowish flames blackened the hearth as they licked brightly at the bricks. She watched it for a moment, then considered the charred bit of carpet badly hidden by her favourite couch, and decided -- not for the first time -- that Black was completely hatstand. Unfortunately, no one else had bothered to notice, and she doubted they would until the morning after he finally succeeded in burning down the castle.

She hesitated at the door to their room, her fingers brushing over the bumps and grains in the wood. She'd been in there once before -- when the task of waking Potter in the wee hours had fallen to her, because McGonagall and Slughorn were pulling Snape from the lake, and Dumbledore was trying to placate a small army of enraged merpeople -- and as she'd pushed a sleepy, stumbling, and half-dressed Potter out into the hall, she'd sworn she'd never set foot in there again. Lupin and Pettigrew had been kipping in a fairly normal fashion, but there'd been a girl in bed with Black, and Potter apparently slept with his hand down his pants.

_Oh, well. Means to an end, and all that._

Creaking, the door inched open, and Lily wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of boys and socks and bed linens in desperate need of a wash, and it was positively filthy. Clothes littered the carpet, mixed liberally with shoes, books, parchments, and sweet wrappers. Potter's broom watched her from the corner, a stolen Quaffle hidden behind its bristles. Black's broom -- for reasons on which Lily did not dare speculate -- was lashed to his bedpost with a school tie. She stepped further inside, toeing a grass-stained school shirt aside as the door snicked closed behind her. Pettigrew's owl hooted balefully in its cage; Lily suspected the papers needed changing.

Lily glanced around the mess, feeling a bit at loose ends. Her plan had been to sprinkle the itching powder in Potter's trunk, but it didn't appear that he used it.

Hearing a creak, she whirled around, her heart hammering in her chest. The door was still closed. Slowly, she forced herself to breathe. It had only been the wardrobe; its door was ajar, and hanging at a jaunty angle. As she tried to relax, she cast about the room for another option. Their school things would never do; Lupin was the only one she'd ever seen open a book. The beds, perhaps. Or their towels, if she could bring herself to set foot in their toilet. She frowned at Potter's trunk and the detritus piled around it until something familiar caught her attention.

She looked down, curling her lip at a scrap of green and white cloth. With the tip of her wand, she unearthed it from a stack of Quidditch quarterlies, eyeing it with disgust as it hung rather limply and fluttered like a flag. Potter's pants. Those pants. The pants his hand had been tucked inside the morning McGonagall had told Lily to rouse him.

There was another creak, but this one was louder, more determined, and followed shortly by footsteps shuffling up the stairs.

Lily froze, her stomach knotting in panic, and the pouch of itching powder slipped from her fingers.

"Look, s'our door -- wait. Moony, s'that our door?"

"No, ours's there. Go on, that's a -- that's a -- you know, for t'linens and that."

"Cupboard?"

"That's him."

"MY FEET ARE BIG BIG BIG AND MY HAT IS POINTY POINTY POINTY!"

"Leave it out, Prongs. Shite, he's -- Sirius, get his arm, yeah?

"WITCHES LOVE MY HAT BECAUSE IT'S GOT A--"

"-- _Silencioso_!"

"Y'buggered the spell."

"Shut him up, didn't I? Get the -- get t'door."

The door creaked again, the handle rattling loudly, and Lily jolted back into herself. She couldn't escape, and she couldn't get caught up here, she just couldn't. Snatching up the itching powder, she darted for the wardrobe. It groaned as she climbed inside, and she settled herself on a pile of robes, closing the door as best she could. It swung back open a good inch, but there was nothing for it. It was too squeaky to be mucked around with, and someone had just stumbled into the room.

Potter's pants were in her lap.

"Close the door, yeah?"

" _Pollocortus_!"

"Hang on, y've got it all wrong."

"Wanker. Y'do it, then."

_Good Lord, they're drunk._

"Fuck, he's heavy," Black complained, shuffling past her tiny field of vision. His cheeks were red and his hair was mussed, and Potter was tucked against his side, still singing silently. "Why's he so bloody heavy?"

"Dunno," Lupin replied slowly. He leaned toward them, steadying himself with a handful of Black's shirt, and peered at Potter's face. "Maybe it's the antlers."

_What?_

"Could be that." Black swayed, and Potter swayed with him. "Here, y'take him." He carefully pried Lupin's fingers away from his shirt and wrapped around a fold in Potter's sleeve. "Yeah. Y'take him."

Lupin waved Black off. "Don't want him. He'll only start singin' again."

"--POINTY POINTY POINTY!" Potter croaked. He startled himself and stumbled, landing squarely on his arse. "Pointy. Pointy?" The wardrobe door shuddered and sighed, and Lily shrank away from it. "Pointy!"

"Moony, please."

"Yeah, just -- where's my wand got to?

"Oh, no! Y'tossers aren't stealin' m'voice again," Potter declared, waving his arms around wildly. "I'll give y'spots! Boils!" He slouched, then straightened. "Spots _and_ boils."

Black reached down and smacked the back of Potter's head. "Y'won't. Y'can't, 'cause I've got your wand."

"What? Where?" Potter's hand shot out and glanced off Black's knee. "Give it here, y'knob." He grabbed at Black's trousers and pulled.

Cursing, Black toppled and fell, landing sprawled on top of Potter. Lupin caught him by the arm and yanked, but Black's legs were too tangled with Potter's, and the extra weight sent Lupin crashing to the floor. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, pillowing his head on Potter's shoulder. Potter sighed. Black shifted until he was spread about equally between Potter and Lupin, tucking his head under Potter's chin and resting a hand on Lupin's chest.

Lily leaned forward, wincing as the wardrobe groaned. From what she could see, Potter's eyes were closed, and his breathing had started to shallow. In this state, it wouldn't take them long to fall asleep. The moment they did, Lily would sneak out of the room, run down the stairs, and pretend this never happened. She'd need a shower, of course. The wardrobe fairly reeked of dirty laundry, and Potter's pants were still in her lap.

"Y'awake, Padfoot?" Potter asked suddenly.

"I wasn't, 'til y'started shoutin'," Black mumbled, mostly to Potter's neck. "Shut your face."

Potter huffed and pinched Black's arm. "Y'shut your face."

"Moony. James s'being mean t'me."

Yawning, Lupin rubbed at his eyes. "Hex him, then. Spots and boils."

"Fuck your spots," Potter grumbled. Laughing, Black stretched up and snuffled at Potter's face like a dog. "And fuck you," Potter added, batting at Black's head. "Geroff! If I wanted your tongue in m'ear, I'd ask."

"No, y'wouldn't," Black said, his nose on Potter's chin. "Wouldn't ask me, anyway. Y'd ask Evans."

 _He won't if he knows what's good for him_.

"Wouldn't." Potter's voice was sour. "She'd just take on." He sighed and twisted a lock of Black's hair around his finger. "She hates me, y'know."

"We know."

"No, she hates me. She really fuckin' hates me. Told Eleanor Applewaite she wished I'd fall off m'broom."

Lily frowned and smoothed her hands over her skirt. They were horribly sweaty. She _had_ said that, one morning when Potter was flouncing around before a Quidditch match, but she hadn't expected Eleanor to tell him, and she hadn't meant it to sound quite _that_ awful.

"Merlin's balls, Sirius," Lupin groused, giving Black a poke in the ribs. "Why'd y'have t'get him goin' about Evans, again?"

"He'd've started givin' out in a minute anyway," Black replied. Lupin poked him again; Black caught his hand and tucked it between Potter's chest and his own. "It'd been an hour already."

Lupin tried to twist his hand away, kicking Potter in the shin in the process. "If he starts singin' that song -- you know, with the soft mouths and lonely hearts and everything -- I'll eat y'both next month."

"Y'd break your teeth on his bloody heavy antlers."

_What?_

"Shut up 'bout m'antlers. M'antlers are crackin'. I've got t'most crackin' antlers anyone's ever seen."

Black thumped Potter in the forehead. "Your antlers aren't nearly as crackin' as m'arse."

"Your arse s'not crackin'," Potter mumbled.

"Get your hand off it, then."

"Well, stop breathin' in m'mouth."

 _Oh, my_.

Lily leaned as close to the wardrobe's door as she dared, shifting until they were spread out before her. The shadows played over them, darkening the place where Black's hand fit against Potter's side, where Potter's arm stretched across Lupin's shoulders, where Lupin's hair brushed Black's arm. She shivered, her eyes widening and a gasp catching in the back of her throat.

Black's face was less than an inch away from Potter's, and Potter's hand was resting neatly on the curve of Black's arse.

"Go on," Lupin said slowly, "kiss him if y'want to." He turned his body a bit, and Black's breath snagged, his mouth dipping closer to Potter's. "I won't look."

"You won't?" Black asked.

Lupin shrugged. Black's shoulder's sagged, his mouth glancing off Potter's jaw. "Don't care to."

"Say's t'bloke with his hand on m'knob."

"Your knob is on m'hand. That's not t'same at all."

"Bloody Hell," Potter murmured. He squirmed, then suddenly stilled, his chest hitching. "You're in m'lap, and his hand's on your knob."

"It's on yours, too."

"Yeah, I know."

The silence was strange and very, very thick. She could hear them breathing, and the short, staggered rhythm seemed to crawl across her skin. Black's tongue darted out, pink and wet as flicked over Potter's lips. Potter pressed Black closer, his hand still splayed on Black's arse. His mouth fell open. When the kiss came it was stilted and clumsy; Black's mouth slipped too low, and Potter arched up to meet him at an angle that put his nose against Black's cheek. They snickered, foreheads touching as they laughed into each other's mouths, then Black stilled Potter's face with his hand and pushed his tongue into Potter's mouth. A shiver ran up Black's body, and Lily realised he was moving his hips just slightly, rocking forward and pushing down, and for strange moment Lily wished she could see what Lupin was doing with his hand.

_No, I don't. I really don't._

Potter's hips started to move, just like Black's, and if Lily looked closely -- and she didn't want to, but she couldn't not -- she could see where their bodies pressed and fit together, see the sliver of space left for Lupin's hand. Black pulled back and twisted away, his tongue waiting on the curve of his lip as he leaned into Lupin for a kiss. Lupin moaned quietly -- a low, deep, throaty sound that made Black smile against his mouth. Lily's eyes fluttered closed, because she couldn't watch this, couldn't watch this any more, but another moan curled through the room, and listening was even worse. It was Potter, with his head tipped back against the carpet and his hand lost in Black's hair while Black licked and sucked at Lupin's mouth, and Black shifted enough -- enough to show Lily Lupin's hand, and how it was curved around the bulge in Potter's trousers, how Potter hand slid over Lupin's and pressed down harder, how Potter's hips were straining to meet him, and how Black's fingers were tugging at Lupin's flies.

"Kits off, now," Black said. "Both of you."

Potter's hands flew to his trousers, working his zip as Lupin and Black worked theirs, but it wasn't _off_ , it was just down enough to be out of the way. Potter kissed Lupin, a rough wet slide of lips and tongue that Lily could _hear_ , and Lupin laughed, because Potter's glasses had slid into his cheek, and Potter sucked in a sharp, startled breath because Black's hand had sneaked passed Lupin's hip and curled around his cock.

They pressed together, all fumbling hands and open mouths and trousers bunched around their knees, their wrists bumping awkwardly and their fingers snagging in each other's shirts. Black gasped, his face hidden in Lupin's neck and Potter's cock sliding against his thigh, and Lupin shuttered, his fingernails scoring Black's skin and his mouth trailing up Potter's jaw, and Potter reached, his hand brushing over his own cock before smoothing down Black's and wrapping around Lupin's.

Potter's mouth dropped open, his eyes wide and dark, and Lily stared, her hand over her mouth and his pants still in her lap.

_Oh, my._

She closed her eyes and breathed.

"Fuck."

"Don't. Don't move."

"Yeah. That's -- yeah."

When she forced herself to look, they were gasping and spent and curled together, Potter's head on Lupin's chest and Lupin's hand on Black's side and Black's mouth on Potter's skin. The room was silent and still. Lupin began to snore, soft whiffs of breath that ruffled Potter's hair. Lily counted to one thousand, recited the ingredients required for a Draught of Peace, and counted to one thousand again. Potter's face was turned toward the wardrobe, but his eyes were closed. Lily nudged the door. It creaked; Black stirred briefly, then rolled and buried his face in the crook of Lupin's arm.

Lily picked a slow, careful path to the dormitory door, and eased it open with her teeth creasing her lip.

"Padfoot?"

"What?"

"Scratch my arse, yeah? It itches like anything."

 

**(five)**

_It's funny, how things get twisted around over time. Ten years from now, they'll have shagged above the Quidditch pitch. On the back of a dragon, and while playing 'My Feet are Big and My Hat is Pointy' on a set of bagpipes. Wossname's bagpipes -- that Irish bloke, you know, I think he's a fourth year -- Flannigan, innit? Or Flannery. Something like that. Of course, this wasn't all that long ago. I mean, those three are at it all the time, but the night everyone's on about was just last month._

_For my part, I was in the library for a bit, but I left right after Evans did. Well, I had a date -- I'm sure the boys mentioned it. Oh, right. I never did tell them who I was meeting. I wasn't embarrassed, or anything, but Maleficent Parkinson's in Slytherin, and you know how James and Sirius get about Slytherins. Sirius, mostly. Something about his sad act of a brother. And never mind all that about Gudgeon. He wouldn't touch Parkinson with someone else's kit. A few people think they're dating, and he lets them. Saves him from admitting he's been having it off with Remus since fourth year. James doesn't know, of course -- he probably wouldn't like it. He swears they're not gay if it's just the three of them._

_Finnegan. Cillian Finnegan. That's the kid with the bagpipes. He's nice enough, but he plays them at all hours._

_Right. My date was fine. Parkinson's a lovely girl. We'd have had a grand time, if Filch hadn't nabbed us for lewd and lascivious conduct in a hallway. Whatever lascivious means. A portrait ratted on us -- some hag in a sheet. I didn't realise she was a Vestal Virgin until she started shrieking like a fishwife. Anyway, that put me in detention, and I spent the rest of the night shining trophies. Probably for the best. If I'd gone up any earlier, I might've walked in while the boys were on the job, and that's just not something I want to see._

_I don't much care what they get up to, really. It's not like they're leaving me out, or anything. I mean, they've never invited me, but I'd rather they didn't. James' gets stroppy when I disagree with him, and other blokes aren't really my thing. Oh, they like girls. Well, James and Sirius like girls. With Remus, it depends on Gudgeon, and if they're on or off that week. But yeah, they like girls, and girls like them. Girls like me, too. I've been around a bit more than Remus realises._

_Oh, Remus was mostly right -- James and Sirius don't know all that much about me. I'm too quiet, I suppose, but that's all right, because I know plenty about them. All three of them. I know that James is serious about Evans. He says he's just messing her about, but that's just -- how did Evans put it? -- a magnificent pack of lies. I also know that Remus doesn't like Gudgeon all that well. He'd shack up with Sirius in a heartbeat. He just doesn't mention it, because Sirius averages a girlfriend a week, and sleeps with James every other night besides._

_And Evans? She doesn't hate James as much as she'd like you to believe. If she did, she wouldn't have kept his pants._

 

  



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